


Anomalous

by NeonGriffon



Category: Kick-Ass (2010)
Genre: I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Non-Consensual, Other, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:53:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonGriffon/pseuds/NeonGriffon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris just wants to break him. He really, really wants to break him. SLASH, non-con, sadism, violence, darkfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anomalous

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because of one panel in issue 7 of the first comic:
> 
> "And if I'm absolutely honest, I've wanted to see you in pain since the first night we met. I've even jerked off about it. Does that sound weird?" - Red Mist
> 
> This line has always intrigued me, so I thought I'd be the creepy writer who actually expanded upon it. I was going for something gritty, deviant and disturbing. In my opinion, Kick Ass as an entity is meant to be controversial so I figured "what the hell? let's write something unsettling."

The fucking world was bleeding. The whole goddamned biological, social, and monetary world was only just a fucking cancerous organ, gushing blood as it collapsed in upon itself. Nothing was authentic anymore. Everything was a fucking sham. People were a fucking sham. A wet, dripping clog of frauds and liars, every one of them bent on gouging the hearts out of everyone else they met. And not one of them worse than him. Or at least, he liked to think.

.

Chris ground the heel of one of his boots into the cold cement below, the action causing a slight ripple in the dirty pool of water currently collected in the dips and crevices of the room. He contemplated the figure before him, a green and yellow mess bound to a cement pillar large enough to support the dilapidated building that the two of them were currently occupying.

Green and yellow...well, that wasn't quite true, was it? Sure, the neoprene wetsuit sported the two ridiculous colors, but there was more to this remarkable rainbow of crumpled superhero that now stooped before him. Behind that mask were hints of pinks and blues and purples, centered around emerald eyes bordered by the cherry hue of broken blood vessels. The bruises clung to the other boy's face like badly planned tattoos. They were beautiful. Almost, but not quite as beautiful as the crimson liquid that spilled out of one side of a broken nose, or the russet streak of dried blood emanating from his lip and forming a trail down the front of the mask.

He stepped closer, admiring the way that Kick Ass' limp body hung forward from the pillar like a marionette. He was suspended from a thin red cord that tied his wrists, wrapped round his middle and bound his legs below the knees. The thugs that Chris had inherited from his dad had done a pretty good job, when it came down to it. They'd captured his former partner without alerting Hit Girl or the "goody goody super-dumbasses" as Chris preferred to call Justice Forever. Then they had roughed him up just enough to provoke Chris' libido into overdrive, not that they would ever be privy to that particular information. Yeah, they'd done a good job. Maybe he'd give them a pay raise later. One side of his mouth tweaked upward in a knowing smirk as he stepped even closer to his former partner.

"Why are you doing this?" Kick Ass' voice cracked. Chris ignored the question, striding up to the other boy and placing one gloved hand against the side of the bloodied boy's head. The hero's brows furrowed slightly, confused. Chris didn't notice the confusion, too busy staring in wonder at the blues and purples and various shades of red that clung to pale skin like camouflage. It was enthralling. He drew his face closer to get a better look, inches away from the other boy, until he could feel hot breath blowing against his cheek. Those emerald green eyes were still locked onto him. They watched as he ran his thumb delicately up to one of the eyeholes and stretched the fabric back to reveal more bruising underneath. His cock pulsed in his pants.

.

.

Kick Ass opened his mouth to speak again in an attempt to try and communicate to this person that he'd thought he'd known at one point. Not that he had known him, that point had been driven home the second Red Mist had pulled out that revolver and proceeded to empty it into Mindy. But even then, even despite the betrayal, Dave still had been able to see the uncertainty and hesitation that had encircled his former friend like a beacon. That beacon was most certainly not in the room today. The figure that stood in the cold room was not Red Mist. The costume change alone was enough of a giveaway that something had gone down in between the time that they last met. And his eyes...even behind that black goth-y eyeliner they were different. They were dead.

Besides, who the hell names himself the Motherfucker without some sort of mental breakdown or brain damage or something. "What do you want from me?" he finally blurted out.

The question made Chris snicker. What didn't he want? His hand dropped from Kick Ass' mask, fingers now curling around his victim's throat. He tightened his grip slowly until he heard the other boy begin to make a choking sound (God), at which point he released his clutch and twisted his wrist until he could slide his fingers underneath the bottom of the mask. Coiling the fabric tight as one might seize the collar of a shirt, he pulled the other boy closer. "I want to break you."

.

.

When he finally let go, Chris stepped backward, his gaze never leaving the boy strewn up in red cord. Now that he actually had him, he really wasn't sure where to start. He had been planning this for so long, a thousand ideas had occupied his head at one time or another. There were just too many choices...and suddenly his train of thought broke at Kick Ass' laughter.

"I'm sorry man," his ex-partner chortled. "I just keep thinking about the first time we met. You twisted your ankle trying to impress me, remember?"

"So?" Chris glared, biting his lip.

"So," Kick Ass lifted his head as high as he was able. "It's just funny hearing you threaten me." He let that sentence sink in for a second. "Especially since you had to have someone else tie me up. Too afraid to take me on in a fair fight?"

And with that, Chris decided 'fuck it' to organizing his plan and instead opted for throwing the hardest punch he could into Kick Ass' cheek. Which hurt a bit more than he was planning on, but it at least shut that idiot up.

For a second anyway.

"That almost hurt. Better luck next time." Kick Ass couldn't help but smile as he said it. He had been hanging out with Hit Girl for too long and he knew it.

"You fucking self-indulgent prick," Chris growled before throwing a few more punches. His fist connected with a jawbone twice before he switched tactics and sacked the hero in the gut. And although it felt alright to release his hostility into skin and bone, it wasn't really that satisfying. Plus, Kick Ass was acting as though he barely felt anything at all which sparked this sneaking sense of impotence somewhere in the back of Chris' head. Which was really beginning to piss him off.

Finally, with an exasperated huff he turned and stormed to the other side of the room, ignoring the snide comments from behind him. One single light bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering. It rocked back and forth on a long wire, throwing strange shadows across the wall. He could feel his body shaking, could feel the rage building. That fucking worthless piece of shit! I'm going to rip his goddamned face off and... he cried out suddenly - more out of surprise than anything - his hip hitting a rickety coffee table and tipping it off balance. An ashtray rolled off, shattering when it hit the floor. His anger temporarily halted, he let his eyes adjust to the dark and to the objects of the table.

Oh, right.

Reaching across the peeling wood, he skipped past a dirty coffee mug, another ashtray, a large hardback copy of The Great Gatsby. Why the fuck is this thing even here? Shaking his head, his hand closed around a cylindrical piece of brass. A lamp without a shade, broken cord spread purposelessly across the length of the table. He smiled at the weight of it in his hand.

Kick Ass was unsuccessfully trying to free himself from the tight bindings when Chris returned, lamp in hand and eyes narrowed. No words were exchanged, just the hard smack of brass hitting bone and (finally, thought Chris) a sharp cry from the wounded boy. A stream of blood flew violently from Kick Ass' mouth and splattered against the cement floor, causing Chris to start laughing uncontrollably.

"Hahaha! See that? It's like one of those...what are they? Those pictures that shrinks show you when they're trying to figure out what kind of crazy you are!" His eyes shone brightly, animatedly, as he pointed at the floor and the nonsensical pattern created by the splash of blood.

Kick Ass was less amused at the sight of his bodily fluids painting the cement. He was growing increasingly aware that maybe he had been underestimating his opponent. Not that he was about to start begging for his life. Not yet. "And what does your shrink say about you? What special brand of 'fucking crazy' are you?"

Chris' eyes narrowed again. "Seriously? You're saying this to the guy holding the fucking metal weapon?!" He emphasized his last word by swinging the lamp directly into his opponent's jaw, this time from the other side.

.

.

Kick Ass gasped for air as another pattern of blood sprayed, this time, onto the opposing wall. His jaw felt hot, like it was on fire. The wall had to be at least eight feet away, that blow had been a lot harder than the first. He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. Tried to ignore the burning pain in his jaw. Suddenly, he felt fingers grabbing onto the bottom of his mask again, forcing his head back around to face his captor.

.

.

Chris examined the face of the other boy, scrutinizing it as if he were writing an essay about the arrangement of cuts and bruises. When Kick Ass' eyes opened, Chris didn't even notice, momentarily distracted by the flow of blood from between swollen lips. It felt like victory, it felt like power. He couldn't help himself. Keeping one hand gripped tightly on the mask, he pulled the other boy into him as much as was possible and forced his own lips against the bloodied ones.

He felt the other boy freeze, completely shocked. It didn't matter to him, he didn't care whether or not Kick Ass kissed him back. It wasn't until he wrenched his tongue into the other's mouth that he felt resistance. Without skipping a beat, he knotted his hand tighter around the wet suit mask, demonstrating that he wasn't afraid to strangle his ex-partner if it came down to that. Part of him wished that it would come to that... Biting into the side of Kick Ass' bottom lip, his kisses grew more insistent. Aggressive. He felt Kick Ass back down fairly quickly, the other's mouth growing slack and allowing Chris' tongue to enter as it pleased.

The taste of copper filled his mouth. He could taste blood, lots of it. And in the span of only a couple seconds everything he had ever been taught about being careful with other people's blood went out the window. He felt it slicking over his tongue, covering his lips, dripping clumsily out the side of his mouth. It was messy, inexperienced. He felt drunk.

.

.

The minutes ticked by, soundless except for the smacking of lips and the drops of water from a leaky pipe hitting one of the many muddy puddles covering the floor. To Kick Ass, the ordeal seemed to stretch out forever. His mouth hurt, which was a strange sensation he couldn't remember ever having experienced before. He wished the Motherfucker would just leave it alone. Wondered how much longer this whole thing could possibly remain entertaining.

When he finally pulled away, the Motherfucker was a mess. And not just the blood smeared across the bottom of his face...which was admittedly terrifying...it was something about his eyes. They didn't look dead anymore, they looked feral. Dave felt a gulp slide down his throat, still sore from the assault. For the first time, he really began to feel fear.

.

.

Reflexively, Chris ran the leather sleeve of his arm across his mouth, dragging the wetter bits of his saliva mixed with Kick Ass' blood across the material. It smeared across leather like paint. He stared across at his personal marionette; admiring the expression of fear and confusion, and pondered what he wanted to do next. Which part of his puppet to smash first.

And then the mouth of the puppet began to speak. Goddamn, did that kid like to hear himself talk.

"If this is about your dad...I really am sorry, you know? Sincerely, I am."

To which Chris didn't answer. He continued to stare at the boy he used to call a friend, unblinking. Allowed himself feel the rage that was burning in him like a fire. And stood there. Just stood there, blood still smeared across the sides like a murder victim. He stared into those eyes and couldn't help but think that they should look familiar. He should recognize the boy that he used to patrol with, the boy who had allowed him to live a fantasy he had only previously been able to daydream about. The boy that had provoked so many wet dreams every night after they had gotten in a fight with some thug. But he didn't recognize them. And that fanned the flames of rage more than anything else.

He lifted the lamp up from off the ground, rubbed a gloved hand up and down it slowly. Decided that wasn't good enough and peeled the glove off. Hand bare, he stroked the brass cylinder again as if he were stroking himself. Anticipation teasing him as if he actually were touching himself, he let the tension build, enjoying the build-up with the promise of release.

Finally, that peak loomed on the horizon. Nowhere to go except for the obvious, he pulled the brass object back in one hand like a baseball bat...and brought it down hard. Kick Ass' head fell, his body going limp.

Dave awoke to the sound of a faucet dripping. His first reflex was to call out to his dad, tell him to call a plumber...and then he remembered that his dad was dead. Shortly before remembering the situation he was in. He opened his eyes, vision going wonky before clearing. A madman loomed before him, grinning like a freak. When...how did this happen? When did everything get so completely fucked up?

Red Mist...Motherfucker (God, he'd never get used to that) was crouching next to him as if he had just been sitting there, watching him. Something was glinting in the distance, the metal of the lamp stand lay on the floor several feet away from him. And then Kick Ass slowly realized two additional things. First, he was now lying on the ground, several inches of water stagnating beside him. Second, his left side felt wrong and horrible and painful.

"What...did you do?" he questioned the leather-clad figure next to him between gasps for breath.

"Nothing that you didn't already deserve."

The response made no sense until Kick Ass realized that the other boy was holding a knife, casually, as if it were nothing. The blade dripped cherry red onto his suit.

The Motherfucker was laughing quietly to himself. "I had to cut you down. Well, I didn't have to, but I figured it wasn't quite as necessary for you to be tied up anymore. And then I guess I might have started without you."

Kick Ass felt his hands scrambling for his injury. He tried to sit up to look at it, but felt his body immediately fall right back down. Fuck!

"Don't worry," the Motherfucker was assuring him. "It's just a couple inches across. Don't be such a pussy." He smiled, sticking his tongue out and biting it slightly. Holding back more laughter. "Want to know what I'm still planning on doing to you?"

Before Kick Ass could respond he felt the weight of the other boy lean onto him, onto the fresh wound. Before tonight, it had been awhile since he had felt this much pain. The nerve ending thing really had been a great superhero power...all except for the times it didn't work. Like now.

His captor had his nails in the knife wound, that same smirk Dave remembered from the Red Mist days plastered across his face as he leaned forward and put more and more of his weight into the action. Dave tried not to let his pain show on his face, although he knew he was failing quite badly. His vision flashed white and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn't open them again until he felt Chris' hair brush against his forehead. His ex-partner loomed above him, inches away, pupils blown wide. The hand that had been jabbing him in the incision pulled out slowly. Chris' body shifted on top of him, and he could tell that the bastard was grabbing for something. He tried to shift, attempted to roll away, but the knife came down too fast.

Chris grinned down at his bleeding body. "Don't stop struggling. I like it when you move."

.

.

Chris looked down, surveying his handiwork. Two stab wounds highlighted the previously green costume in red. One in the fallen hero's side, the other in the shoulder. The outfit looked way better this way. Of course, there was always still room for improvement...

Running the blade lightly across the length of his collarbone, the neoprene dive suit unraveled and popped open under the sharp pressure. The pale skin underneath remained intact...for now. He could sense Kick Ass' wide eyes burning into him, begging him to stop. Which made him falter for a second. Why wasn't that idiot begging him? That fucker had ruined his whole life after all, he deserved to die. And the more he thought about it, the more it irritated him. And as it always did, the irritation knotted itself into a little ball of angry wrath. Grimacing, he felt the muscles in his whole body tense; culminating in his right arm; right before it plummeted repeatedly into the soft flesh below.

And then he heard Kick Ass scream.

Somewhere, as if off in the distance, the other boy was yelling at him to stop. It sounded muffled, detached from reality. It wasn't until he finally came to rest, panting heavily, that Kick Ass' voice became clear again.

"You fucking asshole..." the other boy was gasping up at him. "I can't believe...I just can't...believe..." he started coughing uncontrollably.

Chris' movements were slow, calculated without being calculated at all. Reaching to grab that mask once more, this time from the top, he pulled it off completely. The boy that looked up at him was familiar for some reason, despite the array of bruising that collected across his face. He would actually be cute, really, if his face weren't masked by blood.

'Don't be stupid', his mind pointed out, 'that's why he's cute.'

He let his eyes scan the rest of Kick Ass' body. Blood oozed out of several new lacerations. Some of it dropped off the sides of the wounded body, spilling into the dirty water and turning it a brownish-red color. The rest collected in puddles on his stomach. It was impossible to tell how many of the wounds were super deep, but they all were simply fascinating to look at. He wanted to lay in it, let it pour around him, rest his head on the other boy's chest until he felt his breathing stop. Fuck, he wanted to run his dick through the pooling blood, submerge it into the open wounds, feel Kick Ass hemorrhaging around him. He wondered if it would try to clot around his own body while he fucked the abrasions , wondered what that would feel like. It sounded downright fucking heavenly.

.

.

Kick Ass slowly came to as if he were waking from a lengthy coma, welcomed back to the world by the sting of cold. He shivered briefly, it was freezing. And wet. And it was no wonder, what with the water stagnating all around him. His entire mind felt dizzy, unclear. He couldn't see anything, could barely hear anything except for a slow drip, somewhere off in the distance. It took a couple seconds before his nerves reminded him that they still existed. Pity that they didn't take a little longer doing so.

Shocking on, it was like an electrical current suddenly being connected and then powered up. His entire body felt as if he had been stabbed and then hit by a truck. Except worse, because he actually had that happen before. He tried to sit up only to feel his muscles give, splashing back into that nightmarish water again.

Why can't I see? A series of panicked thoughts blew through his brain like a bullet train before he finally came to the realization that something was covering his face. Something heavy. He shifted and it fell. A hardbound book. Nothing more. Thank God.

A single light bulb lit the empty room, swinging slightly back and forth as if it were mechanical. Like a horror movie, the dim beam illuminated his costume, causing it to shimmer reddish-black from his upper chest down to his hips.

He scanned the room, scanned the dark corners, sure that something would come leaping out at any second. Something dressed in leather and hatred and completely drained of any humanity. Nothing.

Gathering all the strength he could muster, he rolled onto his side and attempted to pull himself up, his muscles swearing him out the entire time. The leaky pipe drummed on like a metronome. Finally, finally, he was able to roll onto one hip.

Kick Ass sat there for awhile in the cold water, wondering why he was still alive. Why the Motherfucker hadn't killed him. Don't be stupid. Get the fuck out of here. He steadied himself, tried to calm his breathing, prepared to make a run for it. Or a stumbling walk for it, whatever. But one quick thing first...

He didn't know why his arm was stretching out in front of him, why his hands were closing on the heavy book by his side. Faded letters vaguely spelling out The Great Gatsby on the binding. Water dribbled from the pages of the soggy object. He opened it, flipped through the mushy pages, thumbed back to the very first page. A sloppily written message was scrawled into the white paper, the ink running but the words still barely legible. His breathing hitched. He dropped the volume back into the murky water.

Was it as good for you as it was for me?

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews gratefully accepted! This is the first thing I've ever written involving this subject and I am curious how on the mark (or off) this ended up.


End file.
